


Winter Forged

by elliex



Series: It Starts With Blood [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU from The First Avenger, Graphic Imagery, Imprisonment, Mental Anguish, Torture, Violence, Winter Soldiers Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6814630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliex/pseuds/elliex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But there’s not a damn thing Bucky can do. He’s as helpless as he was hurtling through the air to the eager ground below. He can’t save himself, and he can’t save Steve. But he can at least bear witness." </p><p>This is the second installment in the _It Starts With Blood_ series. The first can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6697819</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to continue this series, especially now that CACW made it canon that Bucky's not the only Winter Soldier!
> 
> I also want to thank The Collectiva Diva for beta-reading each chapter and offering excellent revision suggestions; I did my best to use them well. 
> 
> Dear readers, I hope you'll enjoy. <3

“ _For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter_

 _that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.”_  
               

                                                                          - Rilke

\+ + +

 

Bucky’s thrown out of the train car and barely manages to grab the handle. He holds on with quiet desperation and dangles over the abyss below.

 

Steve’s inside, fighting. Bucky tightens his hold and refuses to look down. Steve will save him, just as soon –

 

Steve yells his name, and climbs out onto the twisted metal wall. Bucky’s fingers are loosening; the wind catches his legs; fear grips him.

 

“Buck, grab my hand!,” Steve orders, stretching his arm out.

 

Bucky reaches – oh, God, he _reaches_. He wants Steve’s hand to pull him to safety. He wants to live, to someday walk down the familiar streets of Brooklyn, his arm around Steve’s shoulders, laughing and joking and shooting the breeze.

 

He musters his strength and lunges. This time, though, they can’t catch each other.

 

Bucky falls.

 

Steve’s horrified expression burns itself into his brain. Bucky plunges to the depths below, a blood curdling scream ripping the breath from his lungs.

 

 _So this is the end of the line_ , he thinks. Darkness crowds his vision as the cold centers itself in his gut.

 

He’s already unconscious when his body crumples into the snow.

 

\+ + +

 

Bucky only knows he’s been in silent darkness when his consciousness fills with the sound of humming equipment and buzzing lights.

 

His eyelids shine pink, and when he cracks them open, he squints against the artificial brightness of the room.

 

He lies there vacantly, not quite sure what’s happened. He was on the train, with Steve, and then—

 

His eyes widen. He fell. _Oh God_. He remembers falling – plummeting, more like. _OhmyGod,_ _how am I alive?_

As if on cue, he recognizes that his body aches and his throat burns. He casts his eyes around the sterile room, trying to get a sense of where he is, but all he sees is the usual hospital equipment – and it’s all hooked up to him.

 

The door opens. “Sergeant Barnes!,” a blue-eyed, blonde nurse exclaims. “So good to see you awake.”

 

Bucky tries to sit up but can’t. He feels the restraints across his body and flashes back to Azzano. Zola. The experiments.

 

He struggles against the bindings, twisting his wrists to free his hands. He frowns. Something’s wrong with his left arm, but he can’t tell what for the grey blanket tucked high under his chin.

 

“What’s happened?,” he croaks out, wincing from the pain of speaking.

 

“You’re fine, sweetie.” She reaches for a glass on his bedside. “Here, drink some water.”

 

Her accent is American, clearly from the South. But there’s something odd about how she pronounces her hard consonants.

 

The lip of the glass is cool, and the liquid soothing. “Where am I?,” he rasps.

 

“You’ve been here for about six weeks, dearie. Banged yourself up pretty badly from the fall. You’re going to be fine, though.”

 

“My team? My – Steve – I mean, Captain America?”

 

“Everything’s fine, Sergeant.” She runs her fingers through his hair; it’s soothing. When his eyelids flutter closed, he forces them open.

 

“The water…” he trails off; his brain works to connect the dots.

 

“That’s enough for now. You sleep.” She hums an unfamiliar tune, and he slips back into darkness. His last cognizant thought is that she didn’t tell him their location.

 

\+ + +

 

Every time he wakes, he notices something new before he’s put back under. He has a feeding tube directly into his stomach. He has numerous IVs with various colored liquids wending their way into his body. The room is cold; there are no windows.

 

The same nurse always tends to him. He’s never seen anyone else, and his questions about staff are always ignored. She won’t tell him her name, and she refuses to offer specifics about anything, even though his first question is always, simply, “Where am I?”

 

In his all-too-brief moments of lucidity, he hatches a plan. It takes him a week - he thinks - to act on it.

 

He wakes to the brightly smiling nurse who offers the same clichéd bedside phrases and a soft touch to his cheek before holding the dreaded water glass to his lips. He lets the water touch, but he’s careful not to swallow. He can’t sleep just yet.

 

“I’ve always wanted to go to Charleston,” he muses, letting his voice sound draggy and drugged. “Tell me all about it, doll.”

 

Her laugh is bright and brittle. “Oh, I wouldn’t know, sweetie. I’m from Southern Carolina.”

 

Cold unease grips Bucky. He’s known a lot of southerners, and all of them call it “South Carolina.” The nurse tips the glass again and doesn’t lower it until he’s taken a large gulp. He keeps his eyes trained on hers, but he can’t discern anything from her expression.

 

Something’s wrong. He knows it. Strapped down in a hospital bed, though, there’s nothing he can do. He feels the relaxing effect of the sedative taking hold of his aching body.

 

He goes back under.

 

\+ + +

 

He’s often in the in-between – aware just enough to know he’s alive but not enough to be fully awake.

 

Random memories float through his mind: Tennyson’s poem about cat-like fog and etherized patients and twilight; ma singing softly as she does the ironing; tea parties with Becca; laying with Steve under the stars while Steve’s thumb rubs circles onto his hand.

 

The in-between is pleasant, more so than the dark nothingness or the bright white façade of the hospital.

 

His dreams conjure an apartment in one of the neighborhood’s nicer buildings, where Steve doesn’t have to worry about catching a chill. The living room has large windows where they can stretch out in the sunshine like cats, and the kitchen has a real stove where Bucky can cook meals. Steve never eats well enough, but this way, Bucky can take care of him.

  
He’s always alone in the apartment, though. He doesn’t understand where Steve is. He walks the sidewalks looking for him, and he’ll glimpse a brown jacket, the glint of blonde, but he can never catch up.

 

Sometimes, when he’s drifting in the in-between, he thinks he must be dead and stuck in the ether. And if he's stuck, then it must be because he's waiting on Steve.

 

That has to be it.

 

\+ + +

 

He’s floating on ripples of consciousness when a nasal voice tugs at him like the tide.

 

He opens his eyes just as his brain registers whose voice it is.

 

But when he looks around the room, his only company is an unconscious patient. His vision zeroes in on the bed now facing his – more specifically, the man lying there.

 

“Steve!”

 

Steve is still and quiet. Wires and tubes run from his body. Bucky needs to see him, touch him, ask him if he’s okay.

 

He calls Steve’s name over and over, until his neglected voice is a hoarse echo. But his friend won’t answer. He’s struggling against his bindings when the nurse finally comes in.

 

Her eyes narrow. “Oh, sugar. Don’t get yourself worked up, now.” She comes to Bucky’s side first and straightens his blanket, pulling it back up from his chest to under his chin.

 

He shakes his head. “Steve – Is he okay?” His voice cracks on the last word.

 

“He’s just fine,” she says, patting him. “Now, here, have some water.”

 

He presses his lips tight and jerks his head away when the glass is held to his mouth.

 

“No, I want to sit with him. Please?” He widens his eyes and puts his whole heart into them. “Please let me get up.”

 

Her expression settles into something he’d call compassionate if not for the icy glint in her eyes. “Not today, sweetie. You’re still recovering, you know.”

 

“Please,” he begs. He can’t keep the desperation from his voice. “Please.”

 

“Not right now. Later,” she says.

 

“When?,” he asks with exasperation. “You won’t even tell me where we are.”

 

“All you need to know is that you’re safe,” she says. “Now, have some water.”

 

Bucky steels his jaw. “And if I don’t?”

 

She shrugs. “You need this water,” she says. “It’s getting in you one way or the other.” She cocks an eyebrow at him. “Your choice.”

 

A heavy weight falls over Bucky. A dreadful certainty tells him that “later” may never come.

 

As he drinks, he keeps his eyes trained on Steve’s sleeping form, the barely-discernible rise and fall of his chest.

 

When the drugs pull him under yet again, his friend is the last thing he sees.

 

\+ + +

 

The third time he wakes, Steve is gone. Bucky blinks and looks around the room as best he can from a reclined, restrained position. He doesn’t see Steve’s bed or any equipment other than what’s hooked up to him.

 

Bucky’s eyes start to burn, and he blinks away tears. _What if I imagined it all_?, he wonders.

 

For the first time, the nurse doesn’t appear within seconds of his waking. He’s not sure how long he lies there before he finally yells as loudly as his broken voice will allow, “Nurse!”

 

He calls over and over. His voice becomes more frantic as worst-case scenarios cross his mind: What if he’s been left to die? What if this has all been a ploy to get Steve? What if none of it is real? What if he’s in hell?

 

When the door creaks open, the relief Bucky feels is a near-tangible thing.

 

He looks towards the nurse, and his hopes fall. Her expression is cold, closed off. “Well, hello, Sergeant Barnes,” she says briskly. Bucky stares. Her accent is definitely not from the southern United States now.

 

As if she knows what he’s thinking, she adds with an exaggerated drawl, “It’s good to see you awake, darlin’.” She winks.

 

For a moment, Bucky can’t breathe.

 

“I’ve got good news for you,” she announces.

 

 _I’ll bet_ , he thinks.

 

“You’re going on a field trip.”

 

“I am?” Every time he’s woken since being dragged out of the snow, he’s been strapped down and tubed up. “Where to?”

 

“Oh, you’ll find out,” she says with a sly smile. “Your tubes have already been removed.”

 

He looks down and realizes that the tubes are, in fact, gone. He can feel more of his extremities too – the haze that’s enveloped his world for… months?... isn’t as thick today.

 

When she pulls the blanket back, Bucky sees his body for the first time since the fall. He stares at his left arm – or what’s left of it – and begins to shake from head to foot.

 

“My arm!” He looks at the nurse wild-eyed. “What the hell happened to my arm?”

 

She tsks at him. “Now, sweetie, you lost that the first day you were here. How do you not remember?”

 

He shakes his head. “I don’t remember anything,” he mutters. He takes inventory of his arm, noting that it now ends in a bandaged stump, just above where his elbow once was.

 

“What the hell?,” he repeats.

 

“You crushed it when you fell,” she chides. “You should show some gratitude. The doctors saved your life.”

 

“What doctors?,” he asks. “I haven’t seen anybody but you – and Steve, I think – since I got here.” He looks up and catches her eyes. “I did see Steve, didn’t I?”

 

“You’ll meet everyone soon enough,” she promises ambiguously and begins unbuckling the straps across his chest.

 

He considers if he could take her out, how far he might make it before he’s apprehended.

 

As if reading his mind, the nurse cautions, “You’re weak, so no sudden movements, or else I’ll have to sedate you for the trip.”

 

When Bucky can barely lift his leg to slide it out of the restraints, he has to admit defeat: He’s far too weak to fight his way out of here. Even if he could move, the atrophy of his muscles is evident. There’s no way he can defend himself.

 

She maneuvers him into the waiting wheelchair, and then straps his legs and right arm in before securing two larger straps across his chest and lap. “Don’t want you to fall out, do we?,” she asks.

 

“No, ‘course not,” he answers. Bucky feels detached, as if he’s watching this happen to someone else. He thinks he gets it now: He’s been brought out of the in-between because they’re finally done with him. He just can’t understand why they’re making such a big show of getting him to the kill floor.

 

He wishes he could see the sky once more – feel ma kiss his forehead, hear his sisters’ laugh, see Steve’s dimpled smile.

 

But Bucky’s used to not getting what he wants.

 

Out of practiced habit, he takes note of his environs as she wheels him out of the room. It’s the only one on the hall, and he realizes that this isn’t a hospital; it’s some sort of military installation, one far underground would be his guess.

 

He spies men in black stationed at the hallways’ ends; they’re armed and stare impassively as if Bucky and the nurse are invisible. Otherwise, for such a large complex, it’s quiet. He wonders where everyone is.

 

Two hallways, an elevator that takes him three floors down, and one right turn later, the nurse wheels Bucky into an empty viewing room. The window’s dark, and the room’s oppressive.

 

“What is this?,” he asks, fighting the unease that has the hair on his arms standing up.

 

She pats him on the shoulder. “We’re a few minutes early, but the show will start soon.” She wheels him to the center of the window. “There, now you’ll have the best seat in the house.”

 

“Don’t I get popcorn?,” he mutters.

 

“Oh, you,” the nurse says, shaking her head and laughing as she checks his straps and puts the brakes on his wheelchair. “There, that should be secure.”

 

Bucky knows – he _knows_ that something’s wrong. If this were an innocuous thing, it wouldn’t matter if he had a “view” or if his straps and chair were secure.

 

He forces himself to voice his fear. “Did I really see Steve in the room?”

 

The nurse smiles brightly. “You sure did, sugar.”

 

If he’d ever doubted her accent was fake, today’s performance has quelled it. Bucky’s unease turns into terror. “Where—where is he?,” he asks. His voice quavers, and he hates it, _hates_ showing his vulnerability to this woman.

 

“Why, he’s the main attraction today.”

 

Cold settles in Bucky’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

 

The intercom crackles to life, and that nasal voice, the one he’d never wanted to hear again, blasts tinnily through the speakers.

 

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes! I so appreciate your joining us today.”

 

“Zola,” Bucky breathes. He looks to the nurse only to find he’s now alone in the room. If he cranes his neck just so, he can see that the door has been shut. He’d bet it’s bolted, too, just on the off chance that he can work free.

 

“What the fuck do you want?,” he yells, struggling against the restraints that won’t budge. The chair’s securely locked to the floor, and Bucky sags in the seat, fighting the terror that’s building inside.

 

“Well, a little appreciation for the care you’ve been shown for one. “ Zola cackles. “And, for two, I’d appreciate your un-divided attention as I conduct an experiment that will change the world.”

 

The black coverings over the window draw back, exposing the large operating room below. On a raised platform, an unconscious and half-naked Steve lies on the table, still as marble.

 

Bucky’s jaw drops. “No, no,” he murmurs. Louder, he yells, “Don’t hurt him! Don’t you _dare_ touch him!”

 

Zola turns from where he’s been examining Steve’s bare chest and arms and looks up at Bucky. “My dear Sergeant Barnes, don’t you understand that you are bearing witness to one of the great marvels of history?”

 

“Please – just. Please don’t hurt him,” Bucky begs. He blinks through the tears, trying to clear his vision; his cheeks are already wet.

 

Even from this distance, Bucky can see Zola’s face twist into an evil smile. “Why, this is Captain America. According to Dr. Erskine, nothing can hurt him.”

 

There’s a mask of some sort over Steve’s face, and his breathing is deep and even. It’s a small mercy, at least, that he’s unconscious, Bucky thinks, though he wonders just how much sedative is being pumped into Steve’s body to keep him under.

 

His breathing catches when he realizes that they may have been taunting Steve with Bucky’s presence, just as they’ve taunted Bucky. What if they just haven’t been awake at the same time? Bucky closes his eyes against the pain of it.

 

Zola must see because he calls out, “I must demand your full attention, Sergeant Barnes. You are my witness, you see. In the annals of history, this moment shall be forever remembered – the moment that Erskine’s speculations were fully tested.”

 

Zola lets out a bark of laughter and holds up a small saw, adjusting the speed before pressing it into Steve’s perfect skin, tracing a jagged line down his sternum and spewing blood and tissue across the operating space.

 

Bucky swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

 

The saw goes silent after only a minute or two, leaving blood splatter and a gaping wound in its wake. Zola steps back to admire his handiwork.

 

“You bastard,” Bucky growls.

 

“You, Sergeant Barnes, have no sense of historicity,” Zola observes. His voice is detached, his focus clearly on examining the wound he’s created. “I intend to correct that,” he adds.

 

“Hand me the magnifier,” he orders an assistant, who does so promptly.

 

Zola holds it over Steve’s broken chest, peering into the cavity he’s created for several long minutes. Bucky’s entire body clenches with futile rage; his teeth ache with the pressure.

 

When Zola cackles madly, Bucky flinches.

 

“Erskine did succeed with your captain, after all,” Zola announces. He sounds impressed, even envious. “As I speak, his tissues are knitting themselves back together.”

 

Bucky’s breath comes out in a whoosh. He didn’t even know he’d been holding it.

 

“But I do wonder….” Zola puts his hands behind his back and paces the platform. “You see, Sergeant Barnes, I have grand plans for you and Captain Rogers. Together, you will be Hydra’s biggest attraction.” He looks up at Bucky and catches his eyes, smiling broadly.

 

“Never,” Bucky barks.

 

Zola tilts his head contemplatively. “Are you sure about that, Sergeant? There is absolutely _nothing_ I can offer to persuade you?”

 

“No,” Bucky answers firmly, even though he knows he’s at a loss here, knows he’ll do anything to protect Steve. _ProtectSteveProtectSteveProtectSteve,_ his heart screams even as he shakes his head no.

 

Zola shrugs. “Ah, well.” He turns back towards Steve. “Begin,” he orders his assistants, who have suddenly tripled in number.

 

Bucky has the epiphany that falling from the train into a snowy abyss was nothing compared to this, and this – _this_ – is petrifying.

 

Zola nods as one of the more strapping assistants takes up a very large saw. The two others wheel over a table extension and situate Steve’s right arm, strapping it down securely and applying a tourniquet. Bucky wants to shut his eyes, look away, run away – _anything but sit here on Zola’s command like a lapdog_.

 

But there’s not a damn thing he can do. He’s as helpless as he was hurtling through the air to the eager ground below. He can’t save himself, and he can’t save Steve. But he can at least bear witness.

 

The saw comes to life and begins its work under Zola’s careful direction. All Bucky can see is the doctor’s back, bent over Steve’s outstretched arm. All he can hear is the whine of the saw as its teeth take apart Steve’s body.

 

Bucky’s paralyzed with horror; it curdles his stomach. His distress takes its toll, and after (apparently) months of catheterization and bedpans, he loses control of his bodily functions.

 

The saw goes silent and Steve’s arm is yanked from its socket. The popping sound echoes, and Bucky can’t hold back the bile in his throat any longer.

 

Zola steps away, and Bucky can see nerves and tissue dangling from the open wound. Blood pools on the floor. Bucky blinks through tears; his nose runs; his breathing catches. He’s not sure if he should pray that Steve survive this torture or not.

 

The mad man – for he certainly is mad, Bucky thinks – turns back towards his audience. “What do you think, Sergeant Barnes? Did Erskine’s formula bequeath our dear Captain with the ability to regenerate an entire limb as well as he can broken tissue and bone?”

 

Zola’s walking animatedly as he talks, gesticulating with his hands, and Bucky gets a better look at Steve’s chest. It’s healing already, the skin knitting together in a bright pink line. “We have to wait now,” Zola is saying. “I expect we’ll see signs of regeneration within the hour – if regeneration is even possible.” Zola looks up to Bucky. “How are you, Sergeant? Can I offer you some refreshment?”

 

Bucky stares blankly; he can’t think of refreshment right now, not when Steve’s body is in _literal pieces_ in front of him.

 

His input is irrelevant to Zola anyway, as the madman rambles on: “Yes, let’s have tea while we wait on our dear captain’s super powers to kick in. I’ll join you momentarily.”

 

The assistants put Steve’s arm on ice and leave the super soldier under sedation on the table. From what Bucky could see, Steve hadn’t moved throughout the ordeal. He hopes that Stevie is safe, somewhere in the in-between – maybe even in their corner apartment overlooking the courtyard.

 

For the first time, Bucky longs to be in the in-between, too.

 

\+ + +

 

The nurse comes into the room before Zola does. “Oh, my, what a mess you’ve made,” she says, her voice bright and chipper.

 

“So you’re what Hydra looks like these days,” Bucky forces out.

 

She’s preparing a syringe, but she stops and gives him a tight, cold smile. “We’re looking pretty good, aren’t we?” She slides a well-manicured finger along his stubbled jaw, laughing when he shudders. “We could look even better.”

 

“Now, you hold still,” she directs him.

 

Bucky recoils from the needle. “What is that?”

 

“A paralytic. I can’t risk you getting away while I clean you up.”

 

“Just fucking kill me,” Bucky grounds out. He’s acutely aware now of the state of his body and its functions. He’s embarrassed and annoyed that he cares about anything other than Steve.

 

“Not after all the work we’ve done,” she says. “Dr. Zola has plans for you, you know.”

 

“Zola can go fuck himself.”

 

“Such aggression from such a puppy,” she remarks. The needle pierces the skin on the back of his neck, slipping between the vertebrae. Bucky feels a burning that he recognizes – so this is one of the drugs they’ve been using to keep him compliant.

 

The nurse taps at the face of her watch for sixty long seconds before Bucky loses all feeling below his chin.

 

“Now, let’s take care of you,” she says. Bucky lets his mind slip away as she unbuckles him from the chair and lowers him onto the floor. She strips him of his soiled gown and cleans him. His face burns at both the invasiveness and his helplessness.

 

After he’s dressed, she calls out; a furtive worker in a maintenance uniform who keeps his eyes on the floor wheels in a fresh chair before leaving with the soiled one. The man returns in less than two minutes with a bucket and a sponge and scrubs the mess on the floor away.

 

Bucky spies an electrode attached to the back of the man’s neck when he gathers up the soiled garments and now-dirty cleaning supplies and heads for the door. Bucky assumes the device is for purposes of punishment and control. Though he watches the nurse carefully as she re-settles him into the chair – and, man, is she strong – from what he can see, her neck is bare. He wonders what exactly her role is here.

 

“There you are,” she announces once he’s seated.

 

She’s attaching the last strap across his chest when a quiet young woman, also with downcast eyes and also wearing an electrode, pushes a cheerfully painted tea trolley bearing a fancy spread into the room.

 

Bucky wonders if he’s losing his mind.

 

By the time Zola arrives, the women have pulled up a chair for the scientist and set out the saucers and tea. Both now stand against the back wall, silent and observing.

 

“My, my, what a lovely spread. Thank you,” Zola says, he waves dismissively at the others. “Now you may go.”

 

Bucky notices how tight the nurse’s expression is, how nimbly she obeys. He’s glad to know she’s not as secure as she pretends. Perhaps she wears an electrode after all.

 

Zola takes the seat across from Bucky. “Would you like some tea, Sergeant? It’s a special blend straight from Moscow.”

 

He fills their cups without waiting on an answer. Bucky cocks an eyebrow; even if he weren’t restrained, he doubts he has the motor control to handle a china teacup, and Zola knows it.

 

Zola sips his tea twice before setting the cup back onto its saucer. “None for you, Sergeant? Pity. It’s quite good.”

 

Bucky glares. “Quit playing games. What do you want, Zola?”

 

Zola settles into the chair and eyes Bucky speculatively. “Quite simply, Sergeant, I want you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“We are standing at the precipice of a new age, Sergeant Barnes. The Allies captured me – yes, your little ragtag team managed to bring me into custody – but it quickly became apparent that my scientific knowledge was of greater value than their sense of justice. You are speaking with an official researcher for the United States government.”

 

Bucky huffs in disbelief.

 

“Scoff all you want, Sergeant, but it’s true. But here’s the _best_ part,” Zola says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I am, as always, a loyal agent for Hydra – only your own government is funding my research. What delicious irony, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Zola settles back into his chair and takes a sip of his tea. Bucky sits in stunned silence. “And I really owe a debt to your Captain Rogers. By downing Red Skull’s plane and – presumably – dying in action, he successfully diverted the media’s attention _away_ from Hydra.”

 

Bucky jerks. _Downed Red Skull’s plane? What?_

 

“Oh, of course you wouldn’t know about that.” Zola chuckles before he explains, “Your brave Captain took on Herr Schmidt and saved the entire eastern seaboard of the United States.” Zola tsks. “We haven’t yet located Red Skull’s body, but no matter: He served his purpose. We did, however, locate the plane and Captain Rogers, who was literally frozen but still alive.”

 

“Steve’s okay?” Bucky utters the words before he can stop himself.

 

Zola’s look brightens, confirming the enormity of Bucky’s mistake. He leans forward. “For now. Minus the arm, of course. But _how_ he continues to be is very much up to _you_.”

 

“Me?” Bucky swallows hard. “What do you want with me?”

 

“I want you to join me,” Zola says with a smile.

 

“Never.”

 

“Are you sure about that? You will be the fist of Hydra, an exalted and most treasured armament.”

 

Bucky scowls. “Are you joking? I’m a breath away from dead.”

 

“Hardly,” Zola answers. “I put you back together, you know. Reset your bones, amputated your mangled arm, removed your lacerated spleen…You were in terrible shape, Sergeant. Any other man - excepting your Captain - would have died.”

 

“Why didn’t I?,” Buck asks, though he’s not sure he truly wants the answer.

 

“How much do you remember of our time at Azzano?”

 

Bucky stays silent.

 

“Do you remember the purple liquid that set fire to your veins and left you screaming for days?” Zola’s tone is even, but his eyes shine with maliciousness.

 

Bucky manages a nod. His body’s burning now as the paralytic wears off and feeling returns, but it’s nothing like the pain he suffered on Zola’s table.

 

“It was step one.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“Why, making you a super soldier.”

 

“What?”

 

“A super soldier, my dear Sergeant, one who could rise up against Captain America and win.”

 

“I’m not like Steve,” Bucky protests.

 

“No, you’re not – not yet. But you can be.”

 

Bucky bites his bottom lip. “What’s my other option?”

 

“You and Captain Rogers are consigned to lives as laboratory rats. You’ll die in a cage, in pain and frightened.”

 

Bucky closes his eyes against the wave of nausea that hits him. He can’t do that to Steve; he just can’t.

 

“How do I save Steve?”

 

“You say yes to me,” Zola answers. He folds his hands over his protruding stomach and smiles broadly. “I remake you into the weapon of my design, and Captain Rogers doesn’t undergo the vivisection currently scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

 

Bucky blanches at the word “vivisection.” He looks down to where Steve still lies motionless, sedated. “He’s going to be okay?”

 

“Perfectly so,” Zola says.

 

Bucky’s stomach knots up. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

 

“You don’t.” Zola shrugs. “But you’re guaranteed a front seat tomorrow morning if you say no. And then, when it’s your turn, there will be no one to watch.”

 

Bucky manages to keep his emotions in check – just barely. He doesn’t trust Zola, knows there’s no point in asking for assurances. _At least I won’t have to watch him die_ , Bucky thinks. _And maybe, just maybe, this Nazi bastard will keep his word and let Steve live._

 

“Well?,” Zola asks, one eyebrow arched.

 

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

 

Zola claps his hands together. “Excellent – most, most excellent, Sergeant Barnes.” He opens a tin and shows Bucky the contents: sugar cookies just like his ma used to make. “These were made especially for you. I have it on good authority that they’re your favorite, yes?”

 

He sets two on Bucky’s plate. “You should eat,” he says encouragingly. “You need to get your strength up before your conditioning begins.” Zola wiggles his eyebrows at Bucky before taking a large bite of a jam-filled scone and moaning in appreciation.

 

Bucky refuses to look at the cookies. He doesn’t want to remember the last time he saw his mother make her famous sugar cookies, how she’d filled a tin of them just for Steve, how Becca had played tea party and insisted he attend. His fingers twitch, though, and if he could reach the plate, and if he could stomach eating something solid, he would – if nothing else, he’d eat one for the luxury of shutting his eyes and pretending for a moment that he and Steve are back home in Brooklyn, that they’re safe.

 

Bucky remembers that taunting with food and drink is among the tamest of Hydra’s tortures. Much more awaits him, and he wishes that he could will himself to death.

 

Perhaps Zola recognizes the desolation that must be writ across his face for he swallows and adds a pointed addendum to their deal: “By the way, Sergeant, if you take your own life at any time, you forfeit Captain Rogers’s. Are we clear?”

 

“Crystal,” Bucky answers. An eerie calm settles over him as he accepts that this is his end. While Zola chatters about tea and scones and the village baker whom he literally kidnapped, Bucky counts each of Steve’s precious breaths.

 

He wishes he could run his fingers through Steve’s hair once more, see the light in those eyes that was always just for him. Bucky’s eyes burn with unshed tears, but he sets his jaw; he won’t cry in front of Zola. He won’t.

 

 _Besides_ , he thinks, _if I can save you, it’ll all be worth it_.

 

\+ + +


	2. Chapter 2

\+ + +

 

Steve hadn’t hesitated when piloting Schmidt’s plane into snow and ice. He’d looked at Peggy’s picture and promised her a date, all the while knowing he wouldn’t make it.

 

He loves Peggy, but half of his heart had died with Bucky. Life just wasn’t the same.

 

He’d still been conscious when the plane crashed; he’d shakily clambered out of the crumpled cockpit and collapsed onto the grated floor. He’d shut his eyes, and he’d waited for the end.

 

Images of Bucky had clouded his mind – at the World Expo, marching back from Azzano, falling into a snowy abyss. He’d thought of Peg, too – her bright smile, no-nonsense demeanor, her sparkling laugh.

 

The cold had crept in, and his mind kept circling back to Bucky. As the world went black around the edges, he’d thought of that long-ago summer afternoon they’d spent sunbathing on the roof. Bucky had lost his part-time job at the mill, and Steve was determined to lighten his mood. He’d wound up with his head on Bucky’s stomach, Bucky’s fingers in his hair.

 

Under the warmth of the summer sun, with the smell of asphalt and heated brick in the air, and Bucky’s touch on his skin, there had been nowhere else Steve would’ve rather been.

 

He’d let his confused mind picture that day, remember those feelings, and pretend they were still there, together and happy. His last words were whispered to a ghost as the icy water enveloped him: “to the end of the line.”

 

+

 

Even now, in his dreams, it’s Bucky who he sees.

 

Bucky lies in a hospital bed, frail and helpless, his checks sunken, his eyes shadowed, a gray blanket tucked tightly around him.

 

Bucky marches alongside him, humming along to his favorite dance tune.

 

Bucky enters the apartment with a cheeky grin.

 

“Here, Ma sent you this,” Bucky says, passing him a tin. Sugar cookies are inside, and Steve’s face lights up.

 

“Aw, thanks, Buck,” he says with a wide smile. He’s in their apartment – which, wait a minute. They didn’t have an apartment yet? – but this is definitely a place they share. A couple of his sketches have been framed and are hanging on the wall. Bucky’s collection of mystery novels are carefully arranged on the windowsill.

 

Speaking of, Bucky’s in the kitchen banging around. The clashes and dins are getting louder and louder.

 

“Whatcha doing?,” Steve calls out.

 

Bucky walks into the living room. He’s got flour in his hair and streaked across the front of his shirt. Steve reaches out to run his fingers through those dark locks, but Bucky grabs his wrist.

 

“Not now, Steve,” he says, low and urgent. “Listen. You have to _get out of here_. Leave. Don’t come back.”

 

Steve’s brow furrows. “Buck? What are you talking about?”

 

“You have to leave. _Now_.”

 

Bucky begins screaming, and Steve jolts out of … wherever he’s been. His body feels like dead weight, and he struggles to move and to open his eyes. He can hear what’s going on just fine.

 

“Holy hell, how is he conscious?,” asks a male voice about ten feet away.

 

A gruff voice adds, “It’s the serum. I’m going to get Doctor—“

 

The first voice cuts him off. “He’s in theatre, with Barnes. Orders are Do Not Disturb.”

 

“That’s right,” adds a brisk female voice to Steve’s right. “Protocol 437 – _now_ ,” she orders. A door opens and closes several times; feet scuffle nearby.

 

Steve feels the whoosh of air from the woman’s arm movements and makes to grab her wrist – only nothing happens.

 

He manages to open his eyes and blinks slowly as he gets used to the light. “Where am I?,” he slurs.

 

“You’re in the hospital,” drawls the nurse. He surreptitiously scans the room; she’s the only other occupant. “You’re just fine, Captain. We rescued you from the crash site. You were frozen like a popsicle.” She chuckles.

 

Clarity returns to Steve as she’s speaking, and “He’s in theatre, with Barnes” clicks into vivid place. Steve sits up, snapping his restraints. The startled nurse takes a step back.

 

He grabs a tattered strap with his left hand and shakes it at the nurse. “If I’m just fine, what are these for?”

 

“You were having convulsions. They’re protective,” she stammers. He notices that her drawl slips.

 

“Where are you from?,” he asks; his eyes narrow.

 

“Um… Northern Carolina,” she answers.

 

“Yeah, right,” he responds, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. That’s when he finally notices his missing right arm. His eyes widen. “What happened?”

 

“An accident, Captain.” Her arm moves behind her back. “The doctors took good care of you; you’re in good hands.”

 

He’s ready, and when she swings, he grabs. She’s strong, and he’s not used to fighting with one arm. She very nearly touches the needle to his skin, but he appropriates it.

 

Her eyes widen as he sticks the needle into her skin, right over her jugular. “So tell me, nurse, where’s the theatre? And Barnes?”

 

She moves her mouth in a manner that he recognizes, and he injects the vial’s contents before she can consume a cyanide pill. He realizes belatedly that if that sedative was designed for him, she may very well die anyway.

 

He’s dressed in a hospital gown, and he secures it tightly around his waist; he’d rather not have his ass exposed, thank you very much. He rips out two IV lines from their bags and twists them around his wrist; the needles protrude from between his fingers.

 

There’s nothing else he can really use, and he’s already working at a disadvantage because he keeps trying to use an arm that’s no longer there.

 

Steve listens at the door. He estimates at least five operatives are on the other side, maybe more.

 

He’s close; there are six. Two are in nursing outfits, which tells him quite a lot about where he is.

 

“Fellas – and ladies,” he says, nodding at the two women in combat gear. “Shall we get started?”

 

Steve feels shaky on his feet, but he forces himself to focus – to hit, to kick, to parry. Clearly, they have orders to leave him uninjured, and even with his wound, he’s able to neutralize the entire group within minutes.

 

When the last soldier falls in a heap to the floor, he gives himself a minute to lean against the wall and breathe. Oddly, he doesn’t hear footsteps or echoes traveling along the hallway.

 

He takes a deep breath, swipes a gun and a couple of knives, and heads down the hallway.

 

He’s going on instinct as he follows along two hallways before locating and boarding the elevator. He hasn’t encountered anyone else, which makes him uneasy.

 

He’s on the elevator when the audio system crackles to life with “Hello, Captain Rogers.”

 

Steve’s stomach drops. He knows that voice. “Zola.”

 

“I hear you’ve taken out your guards. Pity. They’ve watched over you for weeks. But, of course, you do not remember that.”

 

There’s some noise over the one-way intercom. “I’m a bit busy at the moment, Captain, but if you’ll be so good as to comply with my soldiers, I would appreciate it.”

 

“Not a chance,” Steve mutters, dropping into a defensive position as the elevator comes to a stop.

 

Steve hears screaming in the background. “Oh, by the way,” Zola adds in an off-handed manner. “Sergeant Barnes says hello.”

 

A saw grinds to life, and the screaming only gets louder, more agonized.

 

Steve stares at the speaker in horror. “Bucky?”

 

The elevator doors slide open, and twenty fully-outfitted soldiers are waiting on him.

 

He’s practically vibrating with anger when he steps out of the elevator, and he enjoys a modicum of satisfaction when they all take a step back. He drops his weapons onto the floor; the clanging echoes. “Take me to Sergeant Barnes,” he orders.

 

+

 

The soldiers escort Steve to a viewing room; the curtains slide apart to reveal Zola and a patient.

 

Steve’s eyes widen; his nostrils flare. He knows the man on the table, and the terrified, unseeing look in Bucky’s eyes nearly brings Steve to his knees.

 

Zola doesn’t pause in what he’s doing – which appears to be removing what remains of Bucky’s left arm. “He agreed to this, you know.” His voice is projected, and Steve understands he’s meant to hear this.

 

“I don’t believe you,” he grounds out. He swallows back the bile rising in his throat.

 

Zola turns to look up at Steve and clucks sympathetically. “Oh, Captain. Clearly you are not as bright as we were led to believe.”

 

The doctor turns back to his work. Bucky’s breath comes in quick, shallow gasps; his eyes shine with tears; his body’s held to the table with so many restraints that Steve can’t count them all.

 

Zola does – something, Steve can’t see what – and Bucky arches against the restraints before his body sags. Steve takes a deep breath; his own heart hammers against his ribs. He never takes his eyes off Bucky.

 

His stomach knots up when Zola and his assistants continue as if Bucky had never reacted. Steve grinds his teeth so hard that they creak and ache from the pressure.

 

The guards shift behind him, uneasy. They have good reason to be, he thinks, as he inventories his options. He holds his body ready, refusing to betray the exhaustion and vulnerability that he feels.

 

Zola’s voice crackles through the intercom again. “Before you decide that breaking the window is your best chance of egress, Captain, I encourage you to consider what that might do to my concentration. What happens to our dear Sergeant if my hand slips?

 

Steve freezes. He’d been about half a second from lunging at the window and making it an exit.

 

“Cooperate with my men, and you can enter the arena, even be by his side as I complete my work.”

 

Steve swallows hard. “And what work is that?”

 

“Why, converting Sergeant Barnes’s frail body into Hydra’s most feared weapon and finishing what I started at Azzano.”

 

 _Azzano_. Steve feels the confirmation of what happened there like a punch to the gut.

 

“He lacks his final dose,” Zola says, nodding to a device sporting vials and needles that reminds Steve of Erskine’s machine. “Until then, he’s quite vulnerable.” Zola smiles and waves a scapel. “I’m afraid this is all a very precarious business – Do I have your cooperation, Captain?”

 

Steve’s stomach lurches, but he gives Zola a curt nod. _I’m going to rip you into pieces_ , he promises silently.

 

“I need a verbal response, Captain.”

 

“Yes,” Steve barks. He watches the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest; it’s the only way he doesn’t lunge through the glass despite Zola’s threats.

 

Zola smiles. “Bring him down,” he orders the soldiers. “Protocol Z.”

 

Protocol Z involves a specialty restraint that binds Steve’s left arm to his body and shackles for his ankles. The devices are applied without comment, and he complies; his attention is fixed on Bucky.

 

It’s at least ten minutes before he finds himself standing beside his friend.

 

“Buck,” Steve whispers. His chest is so tight that he can barely breathe. He wants to touch Bucky, cup his face and assure him that everything’s okay… but everything is clearly _not_ okay. Bucky looks wan and thin – so thin. His ribs and clavicle protrude, and Steve can’t bring himself to look at the ruined, bloody mess of Bucky’s left shoulder. As it is, his enhanced peripheral vision reveals Zola peering through a magnifier and poking around with various tools.

 

“He’s doing well,” Zola reports.

 

“What’s the purpose of this?”

 

Zola shrugs. “I promised not to tell you.”

 

Steve takes a step closer and jerks his bound arm in a futile attempt to grab Zola’s collar.

 

Zola arches an eyebrow. “I’m going to add an extra stipulation to your attendance,” he says. “Get the rack,” he orders.

 

Two soldiers act immediately, fetching a contraption that, clearly, is meant to lock a person in standing position.

 

Zola waves a bloodied instrument. “If you would be so kind.”

 

“I’m not getting in that thing,” Steve retorts. He shuffles a step closer to Bucky instead.

 

Zola shrugs. “Then you may excuse yourself. I have Barnes; I don’t need you.”

 

Steve swallows hard, looks at Bucky, and physically sags. Zola has him there. He nods his reluctant compliance and allows the soldiers to guide him into the rack. He grits his teeth as they lock him into position. If he had full use of his arms, he thinks he could break free, but he’s not sure. A few not-so-subtle twists confirm that someone accounted for super strength when designing this thing.

 

“Thank you, Captain,” Zola says.

 

Steve refuses to look at Zola. He stares at Bucky as if he can will him to keep breathing, to survive; he counts the rise and fall of his friend’s chest for a full minute. When he speaks, his voice cracks: “What are you doing to Bucky?”

 

“He agreed to participate in my program.”

 

“And that program is—?”

 

Zola grimaces. “You’re intent on making me break my word. I don’t like doing that, Captain.”

 

Steve’s brow furrows. He forces himself to push past his worry about Bucky to ask questions; he needs to understand what’s going on here. “Why him?”

 

“Because he is my first success,” Zola declares proudly. “His body accepted the serum so easily.” Zola laughs at Steve’s surprise. “What, did you not question how he recovered from his captivity so quickly? How he matched you step for step on the battlefield when other men lagged behind?” Zola looks down at Bucky with something like fondness. “He will be a triumph, and my work will be feted by—”

 

Steve ignores Zola’s self-aggrandizing daydreams to recall the lab he found Bucky in; he looks around the room and sees the familiar equipment. He curses himself for not realizing before now. But how is Zola here and not locked down in isolation? _How did this happen?_

 

“What are you even doing here?,” he interrupts. “We captured you.”

 

“You did – congratulations, by the way. Your superiors were quite impressed that you pushed on despite the supposed loss of your dear friend – and less than three months later, I was recruited.”

 

Steve stiffens. What does Zola mean, three months later? It’s only been—

 

Zola tsks. “Oh, my manners. I apologize, Captain. I should have explained: Five weeks ago, Herr Schmidt’s plane was recovered. To our surprise, you were still aboard and frozen. We thawed you out and voila! Here you are.”

 

Steve is gobsmacked. “So I’ve been gone for – what? four months?”

 

“Nearly eight,” Zola says. “Your funeral was quite the occasion, by the way. You and Sergeant Barnes were memorialized together, which I find very fitting all things considered.”

 

Steve’s so gobsmacked that he’s grateful for the rack’s support. Otherwise, he would be in a heap on the cold concrete floor.

 

“Sergeant Barnes has been here for quite a bit longer, of course. It’s taken some care to get him ready for my project – all of which is being performed under the auspices of your own government.”

 

“That’s impossible,” Steve says flatly.

 

“Evidence says otherwise,” Zola retorts. He snorts inelegantly. “To be fair, I admit that most of the involved government officials neglect to recognize my loyalty to Hydra and most are quite accommodating in not asking questions. They only want to see results.”

 

“So this is for Hydra.”

 

“It’s for the universal good, my dear Captain.” Zola steps back. “There, now we’re ready.”

 

“Ready for what?” Steve’s stomach sinks.

 

“For the next operation.” Zola turns to one of his assistants. “Prepare the patient, please.”

 

The young man, eyes large with – fear, Steve guesses – nods and silently squirts a solution over Bucky’s abdomen. The shock of the liquid causes Bucky to moan; his eyes flutter open.

 

“Steve?,” he murmurs. Bucky’s eyes snap open, fixing on Steve. “No,” he says. “No. You can’t. You can’t _be here_.”

 

The horror in Bucky’s expression shatters Steve’s heart. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’m here. It’s going to be okay.” The words tumble out of his mouth over and over.

 

Bucky’s agitation increases. “No, no. This can’t be. It’s only me, not you. No. Zola, wha—“

 

Zola forces a bite plate into Bucky’s mouth, cutting off his words. “Bite down, Sergeant. I’m afraid this will get worse before it gets better.”

 

Bucky’s terror is palpable, and it sends Steven into a rage. “What. Are. You. Doing.,” he snarls at Zola.

 

“Sergeant Barnes is a fine specimen, but he’s not a super soldier quite yet. One of my colleagues suggested we refine his digestive and excretory systems for easier care before we finalize his transformation.”

 

“Refine his—what the hell does that mean?” Steve catches Bucky’s wild-eyed gaze, “It’ll be okay,” he promises his friend. “I’ll fix this. I will. I promise—” His words die in his throat as Zola ignores Steve entirely and proceeds to make a vertical incision down Bucky’s abdomen. Steve gags as the flesh gapes.

 

Bucky’s body bows, loosening the straps across his chest, neck, and head.

 

“Tighten his restraints,” Zola orders. Steve works against his own to no avail. He sags in the rack and watches helplessly as Bucky is tortured.

 

The assistant adjusts Bucky’s straps as ordered, with shaking hands, Steve notes. He doesn’t miss the young man sneaking a look at an occupied Zola before touching his gloved index finger to the back of Bucky’s neck in a blink-and-miss-it gesture. He suspects the assistant delivers a sedative or something topically because Bucky immediately goes limp.

 

Zola frowns when his subject loses consciousness. Steve goes limp with relief.

 

Clearly, though, Zola had counted on Bucky being awake for this part, and Steve’s relief turns to sheer rage. He wants to rip Zola’s head off while _he’s_ awake and screaming. Steve can’t, though, so he bargains instead.

 

“Stop – Whatever you’re doing, stop. Do it to me. Leave Bucky alone.”

 

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Captain. The Sergeant and I have a deal.”

 

The assistant meets Steve’s eyes; Steve sees sorrow there, and suddenly, he _knows_. He understands what Bucky did. _You jerk_ , he thinks.

 

“He traded himself for me.” Steve doesn’t make it a question; there’s no doubt in his mind that that’s exactly what Bucky did.

 

“Hmmm, I suppose if you guess correctly, then it’s not as if I told you,” Zola says. He’s acting nonchalantly, but Steve picks up on an undertone of elation.

 

“You want both of us,” Steve realizes. _I should have known._ He tilts his head. “Why?”

 

“I’ve seen the newsreel footage, and I’ve read the reports. You’re a well-matched set that complements the other’s strategizing yet can fight as one.” Zola shrugs. “That kind of precision and expertise is invaluable, and under my command, the two of you could shape the future.” He gestures with a bloodied scalpel. “But, alas, Sergeant Barnes has made his choice.”

 

Zola looks down at his patient and sighs heavily. “It is good that you came to say goodbye. It will offer you closure in the years to come. And, do not worry, though our dear Sergeant is indisposed, I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.”

 

Steve’s stomach is in knots, and a mantle of guilt settles on his shoulders. He’s ashamed that he didn’t look for Bucky, that he listened to the brass when told a recovery mission was pointless. He’s even more ashamed to feel relief that Bucky is here and very much alive – even if that means him being tortured.

 

Steve understands with a profound certainty that this is all _his_ fault.

 

If Bucky hadn’t been lost, then Steve wouldn’t have been so eager to nose dive into the ice. He would’ve fought death with every fiber of his being, if only he’d still had Bucky.

 

 _I’m not leaving him again_. Steve takes a deep breath and asks, “What will it take?”

 

“Hmmm?” Zola asks, looking up from the incision. He’s positioning retractors, and Steve will cut off his other arm if it keeps Zola from using them.

 

“What will it take,” Steve repeats, enunciating every word, “for you to take me instead?”

 

Zola smiles and holds the third retractor above the wound; the other two are already hooked in the flesh, waiting. “Well, I can’t authorize a trade – Sergeant Barnes’s agreement negates that very possibility, you see.”

 

Steve’s heart clenches. Of course Bucky would insist that Steve couldn’t make a deal in turn. But the light in Zola’s eye tells him there’s a loophole.

 

“But?,” he prods. Because whatever that loophole is, Steve is jumping through it with both feet.

 

“ _But_ , perhaps it’s possible for you to ‘join up,’ as it were, of your own free will. And if you were to do so, then perhaps I can direct my colleagues’ experimental energies somewhere else.”

 

“Do that,” Steve says. He thinks briefly of Erskine, of his desire to serve his country, of Peggy – but all of that feels separate from who and where he is in this moment. Inside this complex, inside this operating theater, the world consists of him and Bucky. _And I’m with you till the end of the line_ , he thinks.

 

Bucky stirs and moans. A frantic desperation seizes Steve: “Anesthetize him, close him up, and I’ll agree to whatever you want.”

 

Zola cocks his head. “I must say, I’m rather surprised by the rapidity of your decision.”

 

Steve snorts. “Then your precious dossier must be incomplete.”

 

“No, it’s quite complete,” Zola says contemplatively. “Or, at least, it’s quite complete with _known_ information.”

 

“What _are_ you getting at?,” Steve snaps. Bucky’s eyelids are moving. _Please don’t wake up – not yet, not while he’s got you… like this_ , Steve begs silently.

 

Zola smiles slowly. “Never mind me, Captain.” The way he speaks increases Steve’s uneasiness; he wonders what he’s given away that Zola didn’t already know.

 

The fingers on Bucky’s right hand jerk just then, and Steve stops worrying about whatever ammunition he’s handed Zola. “Anesthesia. Don’t do anything else to him while he’s awake,” Steve says, in as level a tone as he can manage.

 

Zola nods and motions to an assistant, the same one Steve suspected of helping Bucky. He places the mask over Bucky’s face, and the tightness in Steve’s chest only releases when Bucky’s fingers relax.

 

Another assistant closes up Bucky’s abdominal incision with neat, even stitches, while another fetches something from a connected room.

 

Steve’s eyes widen when he sees the metal prosthetic. Zola ignores him and proceeds to position it over the raw remains of Bucky’s left shoulder.

 

“I can have you escorted elsewhere,” Zola offers as he works.

 

Steve thrusts his chin out and meets Zola in the eyes. “I’m not leaving.” The _him_ goes unstated but is very much heard, if the way Zola’s mouth quirks is any indication.

 

“Very well.”

 

The procedure is long and complicated, and Steve shudders to think of the pain Bucky would’ve been put through – if he had survived the “refinement” surgery, that is.

 

The sound of the flesh and metal being fused together leaves Steve nauseous. He keeps his eyes on Bucky’s face, on the fingers of his right hand that are splayed on the operating table.

 

Steve remembers those fingers massaging his scalp. A wave of grief punches him in the stomach, and he squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head.

 

“Too much for you?,” Zola asks. Steve doesn’t miss the taunting undertone.

 

He raises his head. “No.”

 

“That’s good,” Zola answers. He gestures towards Steve’s empty sleeve. “You’re getting one of these, too, you know.”

 

Steve just nods. He’s not surprised by the not-so-subtle confirmation that Zola had planned their acquisition down to the smallest detail. He is surprised, however, when Zola continues to talk – about patriotism, the misguided Allies, about the superiority of Hydra’s philosophies.

 

It’s all white noise to Steve. All he cares about is Bucky, and whether or not his friend survives. For the duration of Bucky’s surgery, Steve’s mind buzzes with strategic possibilities, with memories of their past, with his regrets and losses.

 

Steve decides that if Bucky doesn’t survive, then he’ll commit suicide before becoming Hydra’s weapon. He doesn’t expect that Zola will _allow_ Bucky to die now, though, and expects that Hydra has them right where it wants them. It doesn’t help matters that Zola now knows, for sure, that neither will leave the other.

 

Steve watches the sympathetic assistant wipe Bucky’s brow and bloodied chest while Zola calibrates the metal arm. He’s horrified by Zola’s mad scientist experimentation run amok, but he’s also damn grateful – because Bucky’s _alive_. Damaged, but alive.

 

And _that_ leads to the guilt that’s eating at Steve’s soul. If he hadn’t wanted to be Captain America and lead the Howling Commandos with his best friend, Bucky could’ve been honorably discharged, met some pretty girl, and had a family by now. Or maybe he and Steve would share an apartment, and every evening they’d take turns reading aloud with the other’s head in his lap. The images of what could-have-been make his heart hurt.

 

He focuses on Bucky, watching as closely as he can because while he might not be able to stop Zola, he can at least bear witness. He has a silent conversation with his friend, reminding him of their adventures together, of their sorrows, of how they always pull through. _I’m with you; I’m here._

 

Bucky’s furrowed brow smooths out, and Steve can’t help hoping that, somehow, his friend heard him.

 

It’s hours later when Bucky’s finally hooked up to the serum injection machine. As the vials are emptied and the bright blue liquid enters Bucky’s body, he wakes with guttural screams. His body arches against the restraints.

 

Steve recoils at the pain in Bucky’s hoarse cries. His voice echoes in the theater until he loses consciousness again.

 

Steve assumes the worst is over, for now, because the assistants have removed the injection needles from Bucky’s body, cleaned the theatre, and left the room. Only Zola, Steve, and Bucky remain on the operating stage – Bucky, who still appears unconscious yet is trembling from head to foot and moaning.

 

Zola’s pacing around the various machines that monitor Bucky’s vitals. “Yes, yes, yes,” he murmurs, writing notes in a small tablet.

 

Steve blinks back tears as he inventories every sound and motion Bucky makes. Zola seems oblivious to anything but scratching his pen across the page, so Steve finally asks, “Is this over?”

 

“I suppose it depends on what you mean by ‘this,’ Captain. I expect that this version of the serum will take full effect within 48 hours.” Zola pauses and meets Steve’s eyes. Zola’s are practically twinkling. “Of course, then it will be _your_ turn to lie upon my table.”

 

Steve doesn’t even react; at this point, his own fate isn’t of concern. He wants Bucky to survive, to _escape_. His sole purpose now is ensuring that happens.

 

“I want some time with Bucky,” he states, putting as much strength as he can muster into his tone. He swallows painfully and wishes for water – preferably un-drugged.

 

Zola tilts his head and thinks aloud. “The patient’s likely to become violent during the serum’s activation…” His voice trails off before he nods. “I imagine you can handle him at his worst, yes?”

 

“Yes,” Steve answers. If Bucky has more agony ahead, Steve will do what he can to help.

 

Zola nods. “Fine, then. You may stay together until your physical modifications are complete.”

 

Zola’s voice is sharp when he adds, “At that point, however, your training begins. Understood?”

 

Steve’s studied the reports from Bucky and other survivors; he’s poured over accounts from other Hydra camps, too. After losing Bucky, he’d become obsessed with gathering as much intel as possible about Hydra and its methods. He knows what awaits him – _them_ , if he can’t get Bucky out of here.

 

Yet there’s no hesitation when he answers: “Understood.”

 

Zola beams. “Most excellent, Winter 2.”

 

Steve’s eyes widen, and Zola looks much too amused for Steve’s liking.

 

“As of now, that is your designation. This” – he gestures at Bucky – “is Winter 1.” Zola’s gaze sharpens. “Is that going to be a problem, Winter 2?” His tone is kind, solicitous even, but Steve isn’t fooled.

 

“No, sir.” He coughs on the last word.

 

“Good,” Zola answers as he presses a call button. Two of the assistants return. “See to Winter 2,” Zola orders, waving his hand towards Steve, “and then escort both to Cell A.” He settles at a desk in the far corner of the room and is quickly engrossed in whatever he’s scribbling.

 

The assistants don’t even answer; they simply spring into action. The one with kind eyes fetches a bedpan and politely averts his eyes after positioning the pan so that Steve can relieve himself. His bladder is so full that it’s painful, and he’s thankful that the serum enhanced his muscle control because otherwise, he would be standing in a puddle of urine by now.

 

The pan sloshes as the assistant carries it away. He returns with an IV bag. Steve rears back, as much as he can in the rack’s restraints. The assistant darts a look around the room: Zola and the other assistant are occupied; the four remaining soldiers, standing at attention at the exits, are staring blankly ahead. “Only nutrients,” he mouths.

 

Steve can’t deny that he feels lightheaded from the lack of sustenance, so he nods, and allows the guy to hook him up. He watches the young man closely, memorizing his visible features: dark hair, brown eyes, thick brows. No more attempts at communication are made, though – not even eye contact.

 

Bucky’s also being “fed,” despite the serum that’s transforming his body. Steve doesn’t resist when the assistant quietly – and rather stealthily, Steve notes – switches out his own empty bag for a second. Instead of discarding the bag, the assistant quietly slips it into his apron pocket.

 

Steve’s starting to think they may have an ally. There is no way Zola wants him at full power, and he can already feel the benefits of the nutrient pack.

 

His suspicions are confirmed when the second assistant queries what’s taking so long. The possible-ally assistant shrugs and checks the bag. “Must’ve not had it set right; he’ll be ready in five minutes.”

 

The second assistant calls to the soldiers, who snap out of their trances. “Be prepared to transport them to Cell A.” A second rack is brought out, and Bucky’s buckled into it.

 

“Mind the arm,” Zola calls out. “I’ll have the head of anyone who injures him.”

 

Steve notes the pointed looks that the soldiers exchange at the warning. They move Bucky gingerly, adjusting him to a standing position and buckling him in securely. Their fear of Zola, the realization that they are disposable, is telegraphed in their every move.

 

“Keep them restrained by their apparatus until inside the cell,” Zola cautions. “Check them,” he adds to the assistants. The possible-ally checks Steve’s straps and buckles and removes the IV from his arm, while the second assistant inventories Bucky. Steve’s holds up a blindfold, showing it to Steve before tying it around his eyes. Steve sighs. He’ll have to rely upon his other senses now to chart their route.

 

+

 

Three hallways, a service elevator, and four – or five – floors later, Steve is wheeled into a room. The echoes tell him the space is small, maybe 10x10 – larger than many cells but smaller than most regular rooms.

 

He can hear Bucky being unstrapped and moved; his rack being wheeled away. Eventually, someone removes his own blindfold. Steve shakes his head, and a visual sweep confirms the size of the room and Bucky’s presence on a narrow bed. When Steve’s unhooked from the rack, he sags, and his steps aren’t as steady as he’d like.

 

The guards move quickly, pulling the rack out of the room, and locking the door. Steve stumbles over to Bucky and cups his friend’s face with his left hand.

 

“Hey, Buck? You okay?” A pitcher of water and two tumblers sit on a small table between the beds. He takes a sip, determines it’s drug-free, and downs a third of it to quench the worst of his thirst. He’s not sure when they’ll get more, so he’s cautious, and he pours half a tumbler full for Bucky.

 

He grabs the pillow from the other bed and works it under Bucky’s head. He looks feverish and murmurs words Steve can’t make out. Steve hopes that this increased angle will work.

 

“Here,” he says, holding the lip of the cup to Bucky’s parched lips. Without opening his eyes, Bucky takes a sip, and then another, before turning his head.

 

“Okay, Buck,” Steve says, setting the tumbler back on the table. He surveys the room and does a quick inspection: The walls are solid, reinforced -- the door too. Its locking mechanism is complex and promises to be loud, which is reassuring since the walls may muffle his enhanced hearing beyond these walls. A camera is perched above the door and rotates slowly. Steve doesn't like that, but it's better than having guards in the room. A curtain cordons off one corner, and he's surprised to find a sink and toilet there; he doesn't expect that the indulgence will be allowed for long, though. Zola's attempting to lull them both into a false sense of security, and Steve - God help him, but Steve wants to pretend it's real, just for tonight.

 

Bucky has already been changed into a clean hospital shift, and there’s one for Steve on the second bed. He rips off his soiled one, tossing it towards the door, and pulls on the clean one. He takes a moment to inspect his right arm socket; it’s a little tender to the touch but otherwise seems to be healing well.

 

Steve wonders what it will feel like to have a metal arm. He runs his fingers along Bucky’s and tries to imagine it, but he can’t.

 

Bucky starts murmuring again, and Steve makes out his name. “I’m here,” he whispers. He considers his options and then decides, _to hell with it. It’s not like I haven’t already shown my hand._

He grabs the blanket intended for his bed. He maneuvers Bucky closer to the wall and tucks him in, snugging the blanket closely around his body. Then, he crawls in beside Bucky, squeezing himself on the edge of the bed, and putting himself between Bucky and whatever might come through that door.

 

It takes him a minute to get comfortable on his right side. He lays a hand on Bucky’s heart, feeling it beat quick and strong. Steve blinks rapidly against the tears that burn his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Buck,” he whispers.

 

Bucky turns his head towards Steve, though he doesn’t wake. Steve threads his fingers into Bucky’s hair and lays his head against his friend’s. He hums an old lullaby that he remembers his mother singing.

 

Bucky relaxes, and soon his deep, even breaths ghost across Steve’s skin. Steve keeps humming until sleep claims him too.

 

He dreams of a homey apartment in Brooklyn, of Bucky's warm laughter, of knowing he's right where he belongs.

 

\+ + +


	3. Chapter 3

\+ + + +

Steve snaps awake when Bucky’s body stiffens. He sits up. “Buck?”

 

Bucky’s body bows; his teeth clench. When those familiar blue eyes open, their blankness terrifies Steve. What if Zola’s serum has done its worst and his friend's mind is gone?

 

Steve pushes those thoughts away. He clears his throat. “Buck?”

 

Bucky’s blank gaze doesn’t change, and Steve calls out more insistently: “Bucky!”

 

This time, Steve gets a response: a low, guttural moan. Bucky breaks out into a sweat that’s quickly followed by full-body shivers. Steve runs his hand up and down Bucky’s chest, just like his mother used to do for his colds.

 

Through the thin hospital shift, Steve feels the heat of Bucky’s skin, and his brow furrows in concern. Even the metal arm is hot. His hand stings just from the contact – he can’t remember ever seeing a fever like this before. Gooseflesh spreads on Bucky’s skin; his teeth chatter; his body convulses against the ravages of the serum.

 

Steve prays – to God, to Odin, to his mother… to anyone he thinks will listen.

 

 

\+ + + +

 

 

Pain hums under his skin. It roots, grows, branches along until he’s nothing but stinging nerve endings and deep aches.

 

Cold flashes leave him shivering. His bones hurt. His muscles rend.

 

Heat sears his body. He’s melting.

 

He longs for nothingness. He’s firmly caught in the torrent. He feels heavy, anchored. There is no escape.

 

Zola’s laughter echoes.

 

+

 

A voice speaks, its words scattered by his frenzy. His teeth chatter and another freezing wave drowns him.

 

+

 

As his agony lessens, and the haze slowly abates, Bucky’s groggy, aching mind works to make sense of where he is.

 

He’s lying on a bed of some kind instead of a table. And the voice is still there. It’s… softly singing.

_Over in Killarney, many years ago_  
  


Killarney. He knows that word, that place… Sleep overtakes before his tired mind completes the thought.

 

He wakes to a heart beating under his cheek, to the reverberations of someone humming. It takes him a moment to identify the melody – “Danny Boy.” It was one of his ma’s favorites.

 

The humming turns to soft lyrics, sung in a heartbroken voice that makes Bucky ache.

 

_If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me_

_I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me._

_I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me_

He cracks his eyes open, squinting against the light. He can see again – _wait_. He blinks and opens his eyes wider. Actually, he can see better than he ever has.

 

And he clearly sees Steve’s familiar blue eyes looking down at him. He almost smiles; he’s in-between again, which means—

 

“Bucky?”

 

Bucky startles. _It can’t be_. He struggles to a sitting position and instinctively braces himself with his left hand – That’s when he realizes: _I have a hand._ He looks and it takes a second to process what he’s seeing: _I have an arm_ _– I have a hand_ and _an arm, and they’re_ metal.

 

He speaks, but only garbled, gravelly sounds come out. Steve’s eyes are wide and terrified.

 

“Oh God. Wait,” Steve says, reaching for a tumbler of water and holding it to Bucky’s lips.

 

Bucky’s throat feels like it’s cracking. So he drinks, even as he stares at Steve – and purposefully avoids looking at the metal arm that’s bearing most of his weight. When the glass is empty, Steve sets it down and refills it.

 

Bucky cocks his head as the reality of things sinks in: Steve’s here – _here._ And that means… he’s not _out there_ – he’s not safe. _Why is he here?_

He turns from the glass that Steve offers. “Why are you here?,” he croaks instead.

 

Steve’s mouth sets in a thin line. “Same reason as you.”

 

“You idiot.” Bucky’s voice sounds tired and rough to his own ears.

 

Steve juts his stubborn chin out. “Hi, Pot. I’m Kettle.”

 

“You’re a pain in my ass is what you are.” Bucky’s eyes narrow as he catalogues Steve’s appearance, from his tousled hair to the odd angle of his torso.

 

Bucky uses his right hand to tug at Steve’s left wrist. For a half-second, Steve’s immovable, but then his shoulders sag, and he lets Bucky turn him.

 

Bucky’s stomach drops. “Your arm – you didn’t… you didn’t heal?” His voice breaks on the last word.

 

Steve opens his mouth to quip – that is definitely his quip face; Bucky knows it like his own – and then closes it. He shakes his head and moves his hand to grasp Bucky’s. Their fingers slot together, familiar and comfortable.

 

Steve’s expression is somber; his eyes shine. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“But you can’t _be_ here,” Bucky protests.

 

Steve squeezes Bucky’s fingers. “I am.”

 

“But Zola—“

 

Steve shrugs. “He already named his price. I willingly paid.”

 

Bucky’s throat constricts. He can’t breathe. Steve can’t mean what he thinks he means.

 

He searches Steve’s face, and he recognizes that defiant spark, that streak of steel.

 

“To the end of the line, Buck.” Steve’s voice is throaty and hoarse.

 

Bucky’s heart swells even as it shatters. “Steve.” His voice hitches. His vision is blurry; he blinks and wetness trickles down his cheeks. He’s crying.

 

Steve sits on the edge of the bed. “It’ll be okay, Buck. We’ll figure something out.”

 

Bucky looks up into the face of the person he trusts most in this world. Steve’s blue eyes look into his soul, and Bucky opens his mouth to say – what, he doesn’t know.

 

Before Bucky can decide, his vision blackens around the edges. His body goes stiff. He groans at the pain lancing through his body.

 

“Hang on,” Steve says. “You can do this – I think you’re over the worst of it. Just don’t let go.” Steve’s voice goes up several octaves. “Hang on. Don’t let go,” he pleads.

 

Bucky focuses on Steve’s voice, but the pain – it’s all-consuming, coursing through his veins, tightening around his stomach, his intestines, his lungs, his heart… His body spasms. His mind is fuzzy. Steve’s voice fades away.

 

The cresting wave of blackness engulfs him.

 

 

\+ + + +

 

 

Steve hears the guards coming down the hallway minutes before they reach the door. He’s been expecting them.

 

He’s sitting on the side of the bed, beside of Bucky, who’s been asleep for the past two hours. And it hasn’t been a fevered, restless, plagued sleep either – Bucky’s laying on his back, arms by his sides. Steve’s pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, and smoothed his long hair back from his face.

 

Bucky looks peaceful; his brow is smooth, and his face unlined.

 

The footsteps march closer. Steve stares more intently, memorizing the planes of Bucky’s face, the familiar angles, the beloved curves.

 

He touches the tip of his finger to Bucky’s lips, and he’s tempted – so tempted. But the footsteps are outside the door now. The locks click loudly.

 

Bucky’s survived the aftereffects of the serum, and he’s alive, and Steve is selfishly and unashamedly happy about that.

 

He doesn’t know what’s in store for them. Steve knows that if he and Bucky can find a way, that they’ll escape Zola’s clutches, that they’ll turn Hydra on its many heads.

 

That can’t happen today, though.

 

Steve knows the tranquilizer dart is coming before it hits his neck. He doesn’t avoid it.

 

Bucky’s face is the last thing he sees.

 

 

\+ + + +

 

Bucky’s eyes snap open, and he springs to a sitting position.

 

“Steve?” A look around the room confirms that he’s alone, as he’d sensed when he’d regained consciousness.

 

He gets to his feet; though he hasn’t had anything but water in almost two days, he feels stronger than ever. He pulls the thin shift up and inspects his body.

 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. He’d always been one for physical fitness – had to be, what with how many times he’d saved Steve’s ass and all – but this is ... _a lot_ to take in. 

 

His metal arm is heavy and awkward, yet he moves it instinctively. His metal hand holds his shift in place as he runs his flesh hand along his stomach, feeling the cut and grooves of muscles he didn’t realize he’d had. Looking down, his body looks an awful lot like Steve’s.

 

He snorts when he realizes that his muscles aren’t the only thing that’s gotten bigger. He wonders if Steve will appreciate the changes in his body.

 

He wonders if he’ll get the _chance_ to find out if Steve appreciates the changes in his body.

 

With that, Bucky drops his shift and starts looking for clues. He spies fresh black marks from wheels – one of the racks, he deduces – at the door. It entered and then exited, and the rubber streaks differ in depth and opacity.

 

So they’ve taken Steve.

 

He attacks the door, again and again, but it doesn’t give. He leans against it, and realizes that before Azzano, such exertion would’ve had him panting. Now? Nothing.

 

He thinks of everything that’s happened since his capture, since being rescued by Steve, since falling from the train, since being put on Zola’s table – and not a minute later, his breathing’s rapid and irregular. His heart thumps wildly.

 

Somehow, Bucky finds it comforting that a so-called Fist of Hydra can still have a nervous attack.

 

He focuses on taking deep breaths and slowing the whirlwind of his thoughts. He imagines that Steve’s there, a calming presence in the storm, rubbing his back and murmuring comforting words.

 

 _God, Stevie_. The memory comes back with startling, horrifying clarity: When he’d woken last – about 12 hours or so, he guesses – he’d launched into a fight and knocked Steve clear across the room before he’d realized what he’d done.

 

He’d been feral, ferocious – and he’d nearly killed Steve.

 

Steve had remained calm. “Buck, it’s me. It’s me, Buck. It’s me.” He’d whispered that over and over until Bucky had released his hold on Steve’s neck.

 

Bucky flushes at the memory of how horrified and guilt-ridden and simply _awful_ he’d felt.

 

As soon as he’d let go and stepped back, Steve had stepped forward and folded him into a one-armed hug. “It’s okay, Buck,” Steve had whispered again into his ear.

 

Bucky had burned with embarrassment, but he’d melted into the embrace, his heart thrumming to the sound of Steve’s voice.

 

They’d settled onto the cot together. Bucky had faded in and out of consciousness until he’d had a phase of sharp clarity.

 

Then, using the shorthand of signs and nonsense syllables he and Steve had worked out when they were kids, they’d shared what each knew.

 

He’d lain next to Steve, the thin blanket pulled up over their heads to hide their hand gestures from any observers. They’d “talked’ until fatigue pulled him under again.

 

He’d fallen asleep to the sound of Steve’s heart beating under his cheek. Despite their circumstances, that’s going down as one of the best moments of his life.

 

Bucky tries not to think about what’s happening to Steve. He hopes that Zola has enough mercy to put Stevie under, but he knows better.

 

Steve’s the bravest guy Bucky knows, though. If anyone can survive Zola and come out okay, it’s him.

 

+

 

Bucky’s sitting on the bed, his back to the wall and his eyes closed, when he hears the guard’s footsteps and the squeaky wheels of a heavy rack.

 

He stays still. He’s not sure if they’re coming for him or if they’re returning Steve. Zola had told Steve they could stay together until Phase One was completed, but they’re not sure what that means.

 

Maybe they could finally get a break and get to stay together for a little longer?

 

Bucky hopes so.

 

He waits until the guards and the rack are in the room to open his eyes. There’s a guard just for him, apparently, standing at attention, with a weapon that looks like one of Red Skull’s pointed at him.

 

A slow grin spreads across Bucky’s face. “Am I the boogeyman now?”

 

The guard, a kid who can’t be more than nineteen with haunted eyes and gaunt cheeks, shifts nervously on his feet but doesn’t answer.

 

Bucky’s amused by the kid’s response, but his real attention is on Steve, who’s now sporting a shiny metal arm and hand and is completely unconscious.

 

Bucky hopes he was unconscious during the attachment of that arm, too.

 

The other guards get Steve’s restraints undone and let him crumple to the floor.

 

“Hey!,” Bucky shouts, jumping to his feet.

 

The kid rears back, and hits something on the gun, bringing it to life. The fourth guard, who’d hovered behind also has a scary weapon leveled at Bucky now.

 

Bucky throws his hands up. “I’m just trying to help my friend.”

 

“We leave first,” says the oldest of the guards, a fit man with silver-gray hair, who’d helped wheel Steve in. “Then you can help him.”

 

Bucky narrows his eyes and stares them down. “Then get the fuck out,” he snarls.

 

There’s a menacing light in the older man’s eyes, and Bucky meets his gaze squarely. He’s about two seconds from throwing down, and maybe he telegraphs that because the other three guards hightail it from the room. Silver follows, though the set of his jaw tells Bucky this guy’s trouble, even for a Hydra goon.

 

When the door snicks shut and the latches fall, Bucky rushes to Steve’s side and picks him up in a bridal carry. Steve’s head lolls against Bucky’s shoulder, and he murmurs something unintelligible.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky says, keeping his voice low and soothing. “You’re okay, Steve. It’s just me and you in here.”

 

He gets Steve settled on the cot, careful of his new arm – of both their new arms. Bucky’s has a prickly sensation that’s almost but not quite painful; he wonders if Steve’s feels the same.

 

He frowns at the bloodstains dotting the shift Steve still wears and mutters, “How do we always wind up staying in a dive?”

 

Grumblings about conditions aside, Bucky knows that worse awaits them. Steve’s still murmuring in his fitful sleep, so Bucky doesn’t tarry. He makes quick use of their toilet, a specially designed grate in the corner. He notes that not much liquid passes and wonders if that’s a side effect of the serum or their rationed water. They’ve been given one pitcher of water a day, Steve had said, and nutrient packets once every twenty-four hours.

 

Bucky tries not to think about his mother’s shepherd’s pie or her cornbread. He also tries not to think about his mother, with her warm blue eyes, lilting voice, and cheerful smile.

 

He focuses on the gray walls of the cell, on Stevie laying in the bed, on the strength of his own body that’s persisting despite hunger and thirst.

 

He lets himself have half a tumbler of water, and he wets Steve’s dry lips, too. Steve won’t wake enough to drink anything, though, so Bucky crawls in behind Steve, settling gingerly along his best friend’s left side.

 

Bucky pillows his head on his flesh arm and lays his metal hand on Steve’s chest. He’s surprised yet grateful when Steve’s fidgeting stills and eases into a peaceful slumber.

 

Bucky’s surprised again when his own body relaxes. He edges closer to Steve, determined to stay as close as he can for as long as possible, and lets sleep pull him under.

 

\+ + + +


	4. Chapter 4

\+ + + +

On the small, grainy screen, Winter 1 settles into the bed alongside an already-sleeping Winter 2, close enough to rest his metal hand on the other’s chest. Together, they overwhelm the narrow cot, and it takes Winter 1 a few minutes to settle. But, once he does, he’s soon asleep.

“Interesting,” Dr. Armin Zola murmurs. He steeples his fingers and watches the footage from earlier in the day of Winter 1’s tense pacing and various calisthenics while Winter 2 was fitted with his prosthetic. He notes with interest that the serum has transformed Winter 1’s body into the finely toned and taut weapon that Zola needs. And Winter 2 is the perfect complement.

Zola can’t help but chortle with excitement. It will be _his_ project that assures Hydra’s influence in shaping the twentieth century. It will be _his_ research that revolutionizes multiple fields of scientific study. He will be a titan among men. 

He tilts his head and steeples his fingers as he ponders the sleeping figures. He’s no fool, though. As excited as he is, he recognizes that Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and Captain Steve Rogers represent a unique challenge: Neither man is known for his flexibility, and the bond that’s so obvious to any observer will likely interfere with Zola’s process. 

However. 

Zola’s eyes narrow as his soldiers shift in their sleep, as Winter 1 turns towards Winter 2, as their limbs tangle together and they draw closer. Neither seems to wake; if anything, they seem to sleep more deeply.

The raw readings from the sensors implanted in each of the prosthetics confirms what he just observed: Close, tactile contact between Winters 1 and 2 decreases their stress levels, settles their heart rates, and calms their brain waves. 

Zola grins. This is information that he can use. He pulls out a red notebook and begins to write.

 

**_Excerpts from the Notes of Dr. Armin Zola_ **

 

_ Phase II, Day 1 _

Winters 1 and 2 have completed Phase I successfully. Phase II initiated. 

Subjects begin a battery of tests; they are not yet separated.

_ Phase II, Day 3 _

Tests continue. The data is incredible.

_ Phase II, Day 5 _

Subjects participate in combat and artillery training. Results are outstanding.

**Addendum – At 1408 hours, subjects attempt escape. 1 guard killed; 2 incapacitated. Arm mechanism #3 activated; stun test successful

Once unconscious, subjects removed to separate cells and restrained; denied sustenance, hydration, and sleep for 48 hours.

Subjects will be kept in separate cells until further notice.

 

_ Phase II, Day 10 _

Subjects tested separately: Winter 1 completes obstacle course in 2 min, 5 seconds; Winter 2 in 2 min, 4.5 seconds. Both exhibit signs of physical stress, including hunger and thirst.

Subjects given nutrient packs and fluids, allowed to sleep four hours.

  

_ Phase II, Day 11 _

Subjects reunited.

 

_ Phase II, Day 12 _

Winter 1 improves obstacle course time by 48.3 seconds; Winter 2 by 47.8 seconds.

 

_ Phase II, Day 15 _

At 1300 hours, Winter 2 resists modification; Winter 1 breaks free of restraints to assist. Arm mechanism #3 activated.

Subjects separated, denied nutrient packs and sleep; allowed half-rations of water.

 

_ Phase II, Day 16 _

Subjects run obstacle course until each improves their time by 20 seconds.

Subjects run 45 kilometers without reaching their exertion threshold.

Subjects given half-rations of nutrients and water, allowed to sleep two hours.

  

_ Phase II, Day 18 _

Schedule implemented:

0400 - morning maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.) 

0500 – lab evaluations

0700 – physical training

1300 - mental conditioning

1600 – physical endurance 

1900 - evening maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.)

2000 – lab evaluations 

2200 – personal development (history, languages, etc.)

2400 – sleep

Winter 1 and 2 continue to be housed in separate cells

 

_ Phase II, Day 25 _

Subjects refuse to respond to code names. Arm mechanism #4 activated; initial electric shock, set at mid-range of 3, did not deliver intended voltage. 

Arm mechanism #4 randomly tested thirteen times at different levels within 10 hrs. 7th-12th shock tests fully successful. Variation of intensity elicits varied responses from subjects. Highest level, 6, puts Winter 1 down for 2 min, 15 secs and Winter 2 for 3 min, 2 secs.

(Investigate possibility of increasing voltage to arms – a Level 12 shock might render unconscious for 4 min? That could be useful.)

Their compliance ensured after threats of vivisection to be performed on the other.

Food, water, and sleep denied for 48 hours. Otherwise, schedule maintained.

_ Phase II, Day 35 _

Schedule adhered to without issue for 10 days.

Physical tests and laboratory scans show high stress levels and deterioration of motor skills.

Subjects re-assigned to a shared cell.

 

_ Phase II, Day 55 _

Schedule adhered to without issue for 20 additional days.

Results of laboratory tests are staggering. Their physical capabilities are more than I’d even hoped. Winter 1 and 2 are becoming excellent weapons.

Subjects moved to adjacent cells.

Mental conditioning to disrupt their loyalty to country and selves has begun. Initial results deemed successful, per one-on-one interviews.

If 30 more days pass without incident and tests and evaluations remain positive, then Phase III will begin.

 

* * *

 _ Phase III, Day 1 _ – Daily Schedule 

0400 – morning maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.)

0500 – lab evaluations 

0700 – mission briefing

1200 – physical training

1500 – weapons training

1900 - evening maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.)

2000 – lab evaluations

2200 – language review (Russian)

2400 – sleep

Winter 1 and 2 continue to be housed in adjacent cells. Compliance continues. Evaluations and tests remain consistent.

 

_ Phase III, Day 7 _

Winters 1 and 2 determined fit for duty: 

For their first official mission, the subjects will coordinate a sniper attack on a rebel faction in northern Russia. Controlled conditions; this is primarily a test of skill under pressure and cooperation. I expect excellent results.

Schedule:

0530 – Drop Winters 1 and 2 ten miles from the village

1300 – Sniper attack to be completed by this time

1330 – Winters 1 and 2 picked up from drop-off point

1600 – Subjects returned to base

1630 – Debriefing

1900 – Regular daily schedule resumed

 

_ Phase III, Day 8 _

**MISSION FAILURE**

Winters 1 and 2 complied with preparation and drop-off as planned. Instead of carrying out sniper attack, they stole an all-terrain vehicle from the rebel faction and set off towards Moscow.

Handlers followed their tracking signals and attempted to intercept. All six handlers killed. Ratio of kills to subject is unknown, though four died by Winter 1’s weapon.

Subjects allowed to proceed 10 more miles before activation of arm mechanism #7. Injections fully sedate subjects in 43-45 seconds. 

Subjects retrieved and restrained in isolation cells.

High doses of amphetamines employed to rouse them.

Food, water, and sleep will be denied for 72 hours while undergoing constant physical training.

Regress to _Phase Two_. Subjects to remain separate and in isolation. Mental conditioning to be upped to 5 hours per day.

 

* * *

 

_~~Phase II, Day 1~~ _

 

_ Phase II-B, Day 10 _

Mental conditioning now includes a neural electroshock protocol, which has messy side effects. Schedule amended as follows:

0400 - morning maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.)

0500 – lab evaluations

0700 – mental conditioning 

1100-1200 – neural electroshock protocol

1230 – disinfectant shower 

1300 – physical training 

1600 – physical endurance

1900 - evening maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.)

2000 – lab evaluations

2200 – personal development (history, languages, etc.)

2400 – sleep

  

_ Phase II-B, Day 13 _

Redesign mouth guard for preventative use during neural electroshock protocol 

Note: The tip of Winter 2’s tongue was severed; the tip regrew. Winter 1 cracked five molars, losing three; the enamel regenerated or new teeth grew.

  _  
_

_ Phase II-B, Day 30 _

Subjects appear fully compliant. Complete daily schedule and tasks as instructed. Answer to their designations. Winter 1 and Winter 2 do not demonstrate recognition of one another. 

Implementation of _Phase III-B_ approved.

* * *

 

_ Phase III-B, Day 1 _

0400 – morning maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.)

0500 – lab evaluations

0700 – mission briefings

1200 – physical training 

1500 – weapons training

1900 - evening maintenance (nutrition, hygiene, etc.) 

2000 – lab evaluations

2200 – language reviews (Russian – Winter 1; Polish – Winter 2) 

2400 – sleep

  

_ Phase III-B, Day 7 _

Winters 1 and 2 are ready for their missions:

Winter 1’s target is [REDACTED] in Leningrad.

Winter 2’s target is [REDACTED] in Warsaw.

Each team will follow the same protocol:

0530 – Deliver Subject to the designated vantage point

1300 – Mission to be completed by this time

1330 – Depart for base

1700 – Debriefing

2000 – Regular daily schedule resumed

 

_ Phase III-B, Day 8 _

**MISSION SUCCESS**

Winters 1 and 2 completed their missions. Their handlers reported total compliance and excellent demonstrations of their physical and mental training. 

I will submit my report and presentation detailing this successful program to the Group in five day’s time in Paris. I have already itemized future expenses and the projected how the Winter Soldiers project will feed crisis and reap war – spreading the chaotic seeds of Hydra across the globe!

_ Phase III-B, Day 10 _

Now that Winters 1 and 2 have been sufficiently mentally conditioned, their co-training will resume. The goal is to recreate the synchronized battlefield relationship they had in the war. The Winters' ability to work together will be of great advantage to Hydra.

_  
_

_ Phase III-B, Day 15 _

The presentation was extremely well received. All funding requests approved and a hefty advance given.

Winters 1 and 2 have continued with their daily training and activities as usual in my absence. Co-training has been productive.

No incidents or issues reported.

 

_ Phase III-B, Day 21 _

Hydra has contracted the services of Winters 1 and 2 to remove Churchill from the global stage. The event will take place in London.

They are receiving extensive preparation and training. All signs point to success!

_ Phase III-B, Day 23-28 _

Handlers and armed escort will travel with Subjects to designated location.

Subjects given a 4-hour window to prepare for and carry out event.

Handlers and armed escort will immediately extract subjects and return to base.

 

 _~~ Phase III-B, Day 23-28 ~~ _ ~~~~

_ Day 35 _

Subjects attacked handlers and armed escort once in England. All but one died instantly. The survivor, overlooked in the carnage, managed to contact base and inform us of the escape before dying. According to survivor, the subjects had full memory of one another, contrary to all indications when under the observation of myself and my staff.

Winter 1 used an ax to chop off Winter 2’s prosthetic; 2 then did the same for 1. They traveled to London and were in sight of the American Embassy when I activated the secondary sedative implant located on each subject’s scapula. Clearly, it has an impressive long-distance range.

Both subjects subdued, retrieved, and returned to base where they are now housed in separate holding cells. Food, water, and sleep denied indefinitely.

All co-training suspended indefinitely.

Churchill not removed from global stage. Hydra contract cancelled. Funding advance retracted, and approval for all other Winter Soldiers Program requests put on hold.

_  
_

_ Day 38 _

The US Government has approved the funding request for my cryogenics project.

  _  
_

_ Day 40 _

The Winters’ regular schedule re-implemented, albeit on varied schedules. No interaction between the two allowed. Mental conditioning increased for both.

_ Day 42 _

New prosthetics attached. Additional pain sensors and triggers added. Compliance assured by withholding anesthesia and threatening execution of the other.

_ Day 160 _

The cryogenics research is the perfect complement to the Winter Soldiers Program; if I cannot make use of the Winters’ synergy, then I will make use of their enforced disassociation.

Thawing them out one at a time offers greater odds of compliance and mission success.

However, the freezing formula is still being fine-tuned. Winter 1’s intestines froze during his third cryo-run. It took 35 days for his body to recover, and he lost 15 kilograms. 

Winter 2’s eyes were frozen and cracked upon revival, leaking all vitreous fluid. Interestingly, his eyes healed within 18 days, though his vision initially remained compromised. It took an additional 10 days for his vision to return to normal.

This additional information about the Winter Soldiers’ healing processes offers the possibility of new behavioral interventions.

_ Day 165 _

I presented the idea to the Hydra council and conditional acceptance was given.

Upon perfection of the cryofreeze system, Winter 1 and Winter 2 are to be frozen for a minimum of one year. If each survives the cryofreeze and successfully completes a mission, then Asset status will be restored, and Phase IV will officially commence.

If either soldier malfunctions again, the Winter Soldiers Program will be terminated. 

_ Day 185 _

I have devised a program to reset each Winter to a “soldat” setting; this should override the original personalities.

_ Day 298 _

“Soldat” programming complete. Each Winter responds to sequencing as desired and is then ready to comply with commands.

There is no demonstration of the original personalities.

_ Day 748 _

Winter 1 thawed, mentally wiped, and physically calibrated.

Mission Status: Success

_ Day 751 _

Winter 1 re-enters cryo

  _  
_

_ Day 768 _

Winter 2 thawed, mentally wiped, and physically calibrated. 

Mission Status: Success 

_ Day 771 _

Winter 2 re-enters cryo

_ Day 801 _

Permission given to restore Winters 1 and 2 Asset status. 

Phase IV officially enacted.

* * *

 

_ Phase IV of The Winter Soldiers Project, Year 6 Day 243 _

By special request of the Hydra council, Winter 1 and Winter 2 have been activated at the same time.

Each follows usual protocol of thawing, mental wiping, and physical calibration.

Co-mission Status: Success

The Assets are now approved for specially designated team missions. However, the council reminds that any variation from the mission on the subjects’ part will result in immediate termination of the Winter Soldiers program.

At my insistence, I am the only scientist authorized to oversee the maintenance and implementation of Winter 1 and Winter 2. They are the deadliest weapons on the planes, and I must maintain control of them.

 

 + + + +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ======
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you've enjoyed this AU so far, know that there are more fics to come in this series. 
> 
> And, again, many thanks to The Collectiva Diva for her fabulous feedback!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment in the series; at least three more connected fics are planned.
> 
> You can subscribe to the series here: http://archiveofourown.org/series/454876


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